Utensil

by Sandrine Lopez


It seemed to give him great pleasure when he described his cock as his 'utensil', which he had defined - from Wikipedia of all places - as 'a tool serving a set purpose'. And that set purpose, as far as he was concerned, was fucking me. Just that. No frills or foreplay. We'd just meet, have a few drinks and laughs to get in the mood, then he'd whisk me off somewhere non-too-exotic like a local B&B or, if we were daring enough, or more likely he just couldn't wait, a secluded dark alley or doorway.

This time I get a slightly better class of hotel. We actually have to sign in. I couldn't very well ask 'well, who am I to you?' in front of the woman behind the desk, could I. So I let him sign, trying to make out the letters in that quickie, spur-of-the-fuck signature, and hoped I'd got it vaguely right.

"So what was our name again?" I hissed quietly, as you led me up the first flight stairs to our room for the night. A whole night for once. "Ficklehubby?"

The tug of his hand almost dragged me as I tottered on my heels up the second flight. Fuck, he was really in need of getting in me tonight. I half expected him to stop on one landing, regardless of other people who may pass us. Visions of me stuttering, "Go-oo-ood ev-eve-ni-ning..." to stray couples not knowing where to look, as he hefted my thighs apart over the bannister and ram-raided my cunt without a care. At least I have some manners.

"Fuck buddy." He replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Of course. Silly me. Mr and Mrs Fuck Buddy. A contradiction in terms. The committed non-committals. Face palm. How could I assume otherwise?

He unlocks the door hurriedly, doesn't even bother to turn the light on before locking it again with a definite 'Do Not Fucking Disturb - Indiscriminate Shagging in Progress' slam. Before my eyes get accustomed to the darkness, I'm dragged across the room and thrown on the bed. How did he know where it was? Has he been here before? And if so, with whom?

I don't get to ponder anymore as the big strong hand that had twisted me onto the unseen sheets pins me down, while the other seeks me out. Tugging at my dress and his own clothes as one. Unzipped in blind haste. Panties tugged down. Hems lifted. My body violated. Quickly. Harshly. Intensely.

Excuse me, Mr Indiscriminate Shag? Mr Committed Fuck Buddy? Mr One-Trick-Wonder? Mind if I join in too? It's always breathtakingly fierce. Penetrating. Physical. Visceral. Gut-wrenching. Orgasms of experienced athleticism. Climaxes of exquisite fitness. But just body not soul. He doesn't like it when I suggest there's more to fucking than just a different position every now and then. I'd like to think I am more than a utensil. Have more than just one purpose beyond playing catch for his cum, now matter how it pleasurably scrapes every nerve, every fibre, with extremely blissful potency.

As I lie there, twitching with orgasmic shock, shuddering from his sexual spite, mind whirling with a thousand million responding nerves that finally merge into one fantastic feeling beginning between my thighs and disappearing through the infinity of sensation under my belly, I ask, "Am I capable of more?"

Of course I fucking am!

Come here, you gorgeous uncaring control freak. Come to mamma!

He's lying on his back, panting and gasping. Seemingly satisfied. He likes, loves, needs that urgency. Perhaps proving to himself he's a sex god, but the road to my hell is paved with his godless intensity.

I might not want commitment but shit, I want something more out of our fucking!

He usually needs a few minutes to recover and get hard again. I'm usually recovering as well. Letting the pain of his forceful fucking melt into something more pleasurable. It always does, otherwise I wouldn't come back for more.

Two can play at that game.

Still shaking but trying to direct that nerve-shattering, knee-trembling, giddy-go-dizzy post-orgasmic energy into a match for his wildness. I drag myself over him, straddle his thighs, caress his limp wet cock in my hands so it has no option but to stiffen and come to life.

His head rolls on the pillow towards me, "What are you doing?"

Like he doesn't know. I don't answer but use my tongue in more skillful ways than mere words, running it slowly up one side of his now hard dick. Tasting myself on him until it finds the lingering sweetness of his spunk still oozing from the tip.

There's a sharp hard tap from his hand on the side of my head, meant to dissuade me, stop me, but I don't. My lips press their attack. I draw breath, suck the residue of his cum from his cock. Under me I feel him twitch and jerk now. He may profess to not liking hand or blowjobs, says he doesn't like cumming in my mouth, but he'll reap the pleasure it gives, whether he likes it or not.

There's another more vicious slap through my hair. I grip the base of his cock and give it some meaningful jerks and rubs. Alternating between my mouth and palm. Suck, rub, lick, jerk. And repeat. And...

I sense his hand go to strike me again but my lack of experience is more than compensated by the fantasies of doing this to him. Doing it so well that his arm loses its motivation and his hand claws the sheets instead. His body writhes as I bring his cock to a pinnacle of throbbing stiffness and it spasms his cum onto my tongue. I keep sucking, lips tight over his hot twitching skin and veins. Keep massaging, my hands together over his cock in a prayer of passion. And as he is so spent, his body and cock going limp like a puppet whose strings have been cut, I lick his dick like a kitten lapping on his milk.

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiittt!!!" is all his dry, hoarse voice can gasp.

I'm not even going to bother asking if he liked that. He never asks if I like his harsh fucking, just assuming my return is compliment enough. I'll be back.

And despite his look of disdain after, I'm sure he will be too...


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